by R. W. Peake
“Some of you may have already heard this,” he began, “but we learned that the 5th and 21st have mutinied as well as our Legions.” He paused for a moment as the officers reacted, understandably, to this bit of news, and their response told me that not many had heard or deduced this. Sacrovir resumed, “The fact that it happened yesterday, at roughly the same time as our…” he searched for the right word, finally settling on, “…troubles began, well, neither Primus Pilus Neratius nor I think this is a coincidence. This was planned ahead of time, by whoever the ringleaders of this are, inside each of our Legions.”
“What did the Legate say?” A voice shouted the question, yet even before Sacrovir verbally responded, despite my blurred vision, I could see by his expression what the answer was, but before he could respond, someone else asked, “What about the 2nd and 14th? What do you know about them?”
“The Legate,” Sacrovir answered, in as close to a neutral tone as I believe he could manage, “is awaiting instructions from Germanicus.”
He said something immediately after that, but I could not hear because he was drowned out, nor could I read his lips, the officers reacting in a predictably negative fashion; later, I learned that his information at this point was that neither the 2nd nor 14th had mutinied.
“How does that help us now?”
This is the essence of what men were yelling, which did perk up my attention a bit, since I was every bit as invested in the answer as anyone. The thought of being trapped inside the praetorium, which was only serving as a refuge because, to this point, none of the mutineers had worked up the nerve to slice through the canvas walls, was beginning to infuriate me, although it did help cutting through my fog. I was worried about Structus, mainly because it never occurred to me that he would take part in this uprising, along with men like Centumalus, Ambustus, and Gemellus, for the same reason. While I was just as intent on reaching the safety of the praetorium as any of the officers from the 1st who departed from the Legion tent, now that I was here, I was beginning to think that all we were doing was cowering in fear of an angry mob of men like Pusio. My line of thought was interrupted by Sacrovir who, only after some difficulty, finally got enough quiet to continue.
“Right now,” he continued, “the Legate’s orders are for us to stay here, in the prae...” He got no further than that, many of the officers erupting in protest, which at least told me I was not alone in my disgust at being penned up.
“And let them do what, exactly?”
This, truly, was the crux of the issue. Were we, these Centurions and Optios who clearly were not playing a role in this revolt, nor one of those like Sentius and the others who had been dragged out of our group, supposed to sit idly by and watch as men ran rampant? At this particular moment, I do not think any of us had any really solid idea of what the mutineers were intent on accomplishing, other than the redress of the grievances they had been uttering for more months than I could count. However, and in what I have to believe was one of those cruel moments arranged by the gods, we were about to get our answer. Before either Sacrovir or Neratius could answer the question being asked by what I saw was the majority, although it was far from unanimous, one of the bodyguards shouted to the two Primi Pili. Apparently, he had to repeat himself the gods know how many times before he got the attention of everyone else, but it quieted down enough for him to be heard.
“Primus Pilus Sacrovir, Primus Pilus Neratius,” the bodyguard, who did not appear to be a gladiator and spoke with a German accent, “your presence is requested.”
Outside the praetorium, the men who were the ringleaders of this mutiny had managed to achieve at least a semblance of order among their fellow mutineers. Clearly reluctant, both our Primi Pili nonetheless stepped out of the praetorium, although Caecina’s bodyguards formed a protective circle around them. On the orders of Sacrovir, two of the bodyguards pushed the heavy flap up and affixed it to the two poles that were driven into the ground, although I was certain that it was not to provide shade, but to allow those of us still inside to see what was taking place. Naturally, a crowd quickly formed around the opening, but it was Volusenus who was the one to use his size to muscle through the small crowd, ignoring the protests of the other officers. Then, much to my surprise, he turned, caught my eye, and beckoned to me, which prompted me to rise from the stool, ignoring the sudden rush of dizziness that assailed me, and I made my way to his side. By the time I got there, the two Primi Pili had walked, very slowly, away from the relative protection of the Legate’s bodyguards, to meet with a small group of men who were standing a short distance in front of the mass of mutineers. The mass of men were not in a formation, strictly speaking, but to anyone with a modicum of experience, it was easy to see how they naturally divided themselves into smaller groups that I was certain were arranged along Century, Cohort, and Legion lines. As interesting as that may have been, my attention was naturally drawn to what I had now counted as a half-dozen men who were clearly serving as the representatives of the mutineers. I blame the blow to my head as the cause for the delay in reaction when I examined these men, so that before I could react, Volusenus jabbed me with an elbow in my ribs.
“Isn’t that your Optio with them? Structus?”
Even if Volusenus had not driven an elbow into me, I would have gasped, but it would have been from the combination of shock and dismay.
I felt my mouth open, then my mouth worked once, then twice before I managed, “Yes, that’s Structus.”
Now, I would add that my Optio was not standing in the front of the small group, and I recognized that one of the men was none other than the Quintus Hastatus Posterior of the 1st, Aulus Poplicola, who I knew was a paid man and considered one of the weakest Centurions in the Legion, at least when it came to the job. Standing next to him was a lean, taller man who I only vaguely recognized, but I learned his identity from the man standing on my side opposite Volusenus.
“That’s Decimus Regillensus,” this man whispered. “He’s the Nones Pilus Prior of the 20th.”
I asked him, “What do you know about him?”
“He used to be the Tertius Pilus Prior,” the man explained to me, still whispering, “but Primus Pilus Neratius had him demoted.”
This, not surprisingly, tore my attention away from the scene in front of us, and I looked down at the man, asking, “Why?”
Suddenly, the other Roman, who was an Optio, did not seem eager to meet my gaze, but he did answer, “Nobody knows, really. Oh, there are rumors,” this prompted him to look up at me, “but that’s all they are, just rumors.”
“Rumors about what?”
Now the Optio clearly demonstrated that he would have rather been anyplace but where he was, yet I pinned him with a hard stare, until he finally relented.
“Supposedly,” the Optio had dropped his tone to just above a whisper, “Regillensus was too close to his men for the Primus Pilus’ comfort. He made no secret that he agreed with the rankers about all their grievances. So,” he concluded, “the Primus Pilus made an example of him.”
Turning my examination towards the men who had become the focal point of our entire attention, only a cursory glance at them confirmed that, in all likelihood, what the Optio had said was true, judging just from the manner in which the Primus Pilus and the Nones Pilus Prior were regarding each other. They did not speak loudly enough for us to hear, but then the man the Optio identified as Regillensus suddenly turned and pointed back to where a sizable knot of men were standing. And, from that group, there emerged a trio of figures, two of whom were clearly grappling with the third man whose identity I could not immediately make out. Then after a brief struggle, the pair dragged the man forth, and I saw then that it was none other than Sentius, the Secundus Pilus Prior of my own Legion. Because I was so intent on watching this drama, I did not notice the men dragging one of the large wooden frames used for punishments out onto the forum. Until, I should say, they dropped it into place, essentially on the same spot where it normally went
for official punishments. Over the years, through the dozens of punishments a month that are part and parcel of life under the standard, where everything from a striping with just the whip to the gruesome and often fatal use of the scourge, the lifeblood of countless men had stained the stones of the forum in that spot in our permanent camps like Ubiorum and Siscia. It had been a custom that, as I learned from my father, back when I was a child in Siscia and had first seen these darker stones, that men crossing the forum always went around it, never stepping on the stones that contained what was essentially the only physical remnant of so many men.
“It’s like stepping over a man’s grave,” my father had explained, and while he was not overly religious, nor that superstitious, I vividly recall the way he shuddered when he talked about it.
None of that mattered much here, since it was a marching camp, and now, watching what was clearly a tense and angry exchange, despite the appearances, I was certain that the mutineers were only putting on a show that they intended to punish Sentius in some way. Then, when the two men dragged the Pilus Prior to the frame, while the Centurion still struggled mightily and everyone around me began shouting in alarm, I still did not believe they would go through with it. The pair had to have help, but when they gestured towards Structus, who was nearest to them, and whether it was an accident or he had spotted me through the opening, our eyes met an instant before the two men called to him. I would like to think that what he read in my expression played no role in him shaking his head, and I saw him mouthing his refusal, although by this moment, it would have been impossible to hear him over the roaring of the men who were lustily cheering at just the idea of seeing a Centurion flogged. When one of Sentius’ guards risked taking a hand off the Centurion to jab an accusing finger at my Optio, the Pilus Prior did not hesitate, violently jerking his arm from the man’s grasp, then in one motion turning and punching the other ranker in the face. It was an instinctive, and from my viewpoint, completely justifiable reaction, but it was also the worst move he could have made given the circumstances. Even before the ranker went reeling backward, clutching hands to his face, the blood pouring through his fingers, easily a dozen men who had been standing at the front of the rude formation leapt forward, and before Sentius had gone a couple steps in the direction of the praetorium, clearly intending to escape, he was tackled and slammed bodily onto the packed dirt of the forum. It was short work for the men to drag him to the frame and strap him down, and now I was no longer so certain that he would not actually be whipped. Sacrovir indicated Sentius, who appeared to be dazed, which was understandable, and now there was no mistaking that he was pleading with Regillensus, but we clearly saw the Centurion, who I at least now accepted as being the ringleader of the mutiny, or one of them, shake his head in a clear refusal.
But it was something that both Volusenus and I noticed, a furtive move of Regillensus’ eyes that flickered back in the general direction of the mob that prompted Volusenus to mutter, “I think that bastard’s just as scared of the mob as we are.”
That was precisely the reaction I had from watching what was taking place, although I seriously doubted that this would save Regillensus from punishment, especially if our new Emperor deemed it so. Once it became clear to Sacrovir that he would be unable to sway the leader of the mutiny, he gave Sentius one glance of apology, then looked away and refused to look in his direction again. Sentius was now strapped to the frame, and he began thrashing his head wildly and shouting incoherently, which was quickly cut off by one of the mutineers thrusting a gag in his mouth. He spit it out once, but after the mutineer punched him in the head several times, the next time it was shoved into his mouth, it stayed there.
“They’re not really going to do it, are they?” Volusenus murmured, but while I found it hard to believe, I was beginning to suspect that we were about to find out.
Neratius had allowed Sacrovir to plead his case for Sentius, and I assumed, the other Centurions and Optios who had been grabbed from our group or, as we had learned once we made it to the praetorium, had been detained earlier during the night before, but once Sacrovir was finished, he began speaking. Now there was no hiding the outright hatred on the part of the rogue Centurion Regillensus for his former Primus Pilus, since I was certain that no matter what happened in the aftermath of this, Regillensus would never serve another day in the 20th. And, it was easy to see that hatred was returned in full measure by Neratius, matters quickly becoming more heated between them, until with a roar that could be heard even above the shouting of the revolting men, the Primus Pilus raised his vitus, clearly intending to strike Regillensus. Thankfully, Sacrovir managed to grab his arm before he could swing it at the Centurion, but just that was enough, because suddenly out of the crowd, a dark, streaking blur issued forth, and Neratius was struck fully in the face by what, only after it bounced to the ground, I could see was a stone that probably had come from the tributary of the Rhenus that flowed just outside the camp. Reeling backward, now it was Neratius’ turn to bring a hand to his face to try and stem the flow of blood, while Sacrovir, whose grasp on his counterpart’s arm had been wrenched loose when Neratius recoiled from being hit, reached out and reacquired his grip on the other Primus Pilus, and snarling a curse at Regillensus, began half-dragging, half-assisting Neratius away. As he did so, a hail of missiles came flying from the mob, but thankfully this time, it was a mixture of refuse, composed of rotten fruits, what looked like hunks of spoiled meat, and not surprisingly, piles of cac.
“Get out there and help them!”
I heard someone roar this, but while the bodyguards did so reluctantly, I grabbed Volusenus by the elbow and said simply, “Come on.”
He gave a small shout of what sounded like a protest, though he yielded to my pressure, following only a step behind me as I began crossing the thirty paces still separating the two Primi Pili, while it took the bodyguards, no doubt shamed by being the men ordered to move first, a heartbeat longer. Very quickly, they caught up, and since they had shields, Volusenus and I were content to allow them to form a protective barrier around the two Centurions, Neratius now leaning heavily against Sacrovir, the blood flowing so freely from in between his fingers that his mail glistened red almost down to his baltea. Without being asked, I put an arm around Neratius’ waist, prompting a gasped thanks from Sacrovir, and we returned to the praetorium. Just as we made it inside, there was a huge tumult, over and above what had become a dull roaring of yelling men, and I heard one of the men still standing in the doorway shout something, but I could not make it out. Instead, I helped guide the Primus Pilus of the 20th to a desk that had been hastily cleared, where Sacrovir and I helped him onto, then had him lie back.
“Where’s Parmenion?”
It was Alex’s voice I heard calling for the clerk, who quickly appeared, but while I was certainly interested to see what injuries Neratius had sustained, which were impossible to see through the blood and the hand he still clasped firmly to his face, I was more interested in what was taking place outside. I stayed long enough to see that only one eye was visible, and I was actually struck by a memory, specifically that perhaps this was how Divus Julius had looked when he celebrated his four triumphs, in which my Avus was the only man from the ranks to march in every one.
“They’re doing it! They’re flogging him!”
My desire to see how badly Neratius was hurt paled in comparison to this, and I joined the mad rush of men to the opening of the tent, and I freely admit that I used my size to muscle my way to a spot where I could see. And, within a matter of heartbeats, I was sorry that I had done so.
Sentius was the first, but he was far from the last of a number of officers, from both Legions, and including Centurions and Optios, to be given lashes. Perhaps the only positive that can be said was that they did not use the scourge, even on Sentius, who received the worst punishment. Along with the others, we stood and watched helplessly as men took turns applying the lash to Sentius’ back, composed mostly of men fro
m his own Century at first; I was certain I recognized well more than a dozen men. I am certain that while it did not seem to be the case, Sentius was actually fortunate that none of the men who took their turn whipping him had any experience in how to use the whip, and if I am being completely honest, the marks they were leaving were markedly similar to what a vitus might have left. That one of us observing kept count informed us that Sentius had been given sixty lashes is ironic proof of the inefficiency of the mutineers, since there should have been no remnant of skin left on his back when they were through. Once they were finished, they untied Sentius, who collapsed to his knees, barely conscious, while the mutineers unanimously jeered, laughed, and threw insults at the Secundus Pilus Prior, and the thought flashed through my mind that Sentius, no matter what happened, was through as a Centurion in Rome’s Legions, provided he survived; no Legionary would follow him after this. He was unceremoniously dragged off, a man holding each arm and quickly disappearing into the mob, while Sentius’ replacement, wearing just a tunic with the white stripe of an Optio was shoved forward. Before I could watch another officer be flogged, I heard someone call my name.
Turning, I scanned the room, which was becoming rank with the smell of fear sweat, crammed with men who, but for the blessing of sweet Fortuna, would be out there waiting to be whipped and beaten half to death. Finally, I saw that it was Sacrovir, except he was no longer at the spot where Parmenion had now helped Neratius to a sitting position, but was standing directly in front of the flap that led to the Legate’s office. Making my way through the room, I did give Neratius a cursory examination; one eye and half his face was obscured by a crude bandage that was already blood-soaked, and I wondered if he had lost his eye. Since it was not important in the moment, this was all the thought I gave, reaching Sacrovir and feeling slightly ludicrous for rendering a salute, given everything taking place.
